Better Company
by PaperRevolution
Summary: Modern AU. Margaery's eighteenth birthday present, the ugliest yellow van anyone has ever seen, throws Sansa and Willas together in an unexpected way.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: Modern AU. Margaery's eighteenth birthday present, the ugliest yellow van anyone has ever seen, throws Sansa and Willas together in an unexpected way.**

-OoOoOoOoO-

"That's the ugliest heap of metal I've ever seen in my life," Mace says, sticking his hands in the pockets of his trousers so that his ample belly sticks out even more than usual. "What would you want that for?"

Margaery rolls her eyes at him. "To _drive."_

They both look at the van. It is bright yellow. Banana yellow. There's a very noticeable dent in the passenger door.

"I don't understand you young people," Mace grumbles. But of course, he strikes a deal with the owner of the van despite this, and the following day, it is Margaery's.

**-OoOoOoOoOoO-**

"Marge wants us all to come."

Willas groans, pointedly not looking up from the book he's reading. The idea of spending two months on the road with his younger siblings and a bunch of their friends sounds, right now, about as appealing as the certain death that the main character of the novel he's reading is facing. It's hard enough to stomach seeing Garlan and Leonette constantly glued to one another as it is…

"This once," says Willas wearily, "I don't care what Marge wants." He lets out an indignant noise as his book is yanked out of his hand.

"I'm not giving this back until you agree to come along," says his youngest brother smugly.

"For God's sake, Loras. Stop being such a child."

"Call me whatever you want. I'm not shutting up about this until you change your mind."

Willas pushes out a long, put-upon sigh. "Why do you even care whether I go on your stupid road trip?"

"Marge bet me that I couldn't convince you -" Loras starts, and Willas cuts him off with a loud, derisive snort.

"Oh. Of course. Yeah. Well, you can tell her she won. I'm not coming."

The Tyrells' living room door swings open, and Garlan peers inside.

"Don't be an idiot, Willas," he says, not unkindly, "Margaery wants you to come. It's her birthday. It can't be that bad."

There is the briefest of pauses. Then:

"Fine," replies Willas, relenting. To Loras, he says, "You lost your ridiculous bet."

Loras groans theatrically.

**-OoOoOoOoOoOoO-**

"I don't know why I liked him," Sansa says miserably, tugging at the hem of her faded lilac t-shirt, "Everyone warned me about what he was like. I'm so stupid."

Margaery shakes her head vehemently. "No, you're not," she tells her friend, "Come on, how many other girls have been fooled by Joff Baratheon? It's surprising how many people can overlook the fact that he's a complete twat, just because he happens to be a _rich_ twat."

Sansa laughs despite herself, but her laugh quickly peters out and she twists a strand of hair awkwardly around one finger. "Maybe I shouldn't come on the trip," she murmurs, "I don't want to dampen the mood, or something."

The other girl sighs in mock exasperation. "You won't," she assures her, "This is exactly what you need."

**-OoOoOoOoOoOoO-**

Sansa stays at the Tyrells' impressive Kent home the night before the trip. Robb drops her off with her many bags, and stands in the hallway talking to Garlan about something or other whilst Sansa goes upstairs to find Margaery.

On the landing, she almost walks headlong into Willas, who is wearing his reading glasses and a vaguely startled expression.

"Oh," he says awkwardly, "Hi, Sansa. Are you - are you taking all that stuff with you?"

Sansa's cheeks flush pink. "Er. Yeah… I think so."

"Good thing it's a big van, then," Willas jokes in his mild way. "Are you looking forward to it? The trip, I mean. Marge hasn't shut up about it for days. I wasn't going to come, but I needed a break from writing my book, or so everyone keeps telling me, so…"

"So…" Sansa is suddenly unable to process an intelligent response. This has to be the most Willas has ever said to her in one go. "So… um… are you - bringing anyone? Tomorrow? On the trip?" _I sound like a complete idiot._

Willas laughs wryly and shakes his head. "Who would I bring?"

"There are probably tons of girls who'd be dying to spend the summer with you," the words fly out of Sansa's mouth before she can contain them, and immediately she wishes she could unsay them. Her cheeks are hot, and she doesn't know where to look. Even staring at the floor doesn't seem a viable option; he'll think she's weird.

Willas squints at her. "I think you've got me confused with someone else," he says finally, trying to make a joke of it, "Just to remind you, I'm not Garlan or Loras. I'm the other one, who wears weird glasses and makes bad jokes and always has his nose stuck in a book." All this he says with a cheerfully self-deprecating air that makes him seem endearing rather than whiny, as far as Sansa is concerned. She's considering this new view of him; trying to fit it into what little knowledge she has of Marge's eldest brother, who's always holed up in his room, writing. It takes a long moment for her to realise that she's staring at him, and she tears her eyes away in furious embarrassment.

"I'll - um- see you in a bit, then," she says to him in a rush. "I'm going to find Marge."

And with that, desperately, she ducks around him and flees down the long landing towards the door to Margaery's room, from behind which loud music, brashly cheerful, plays.


	2. Chapter 2

They have been driving for little more than half an hour, and already Willas is wishing he'd never agreed to this.

Margaery and Sansa gossip incessantly - or rather, Margaery talks, and Sansa mostly nods and smiles, slipping in an appropriate comment here and there. They chatter inanely about Myrcella Baratheon, Joff's little sister, being sent off to some progressive, avant-garde boarding school that the Martell kids go to. Then, somehow, they move on to discussing Sansa's brother Jon, who's off on some outreach programme to help build homes for the poor in Brazil or somewhere. Apparently, travel and change are the discussion du jour. Willas mostly tunes them out, trying to focus on the notes he's jotting down in his little brown Moleskine.

Garlan and Leonette, predictably, are sickening. Leonette's sitting so close to Garlan that she's practically on top of him, and they shower one another with light kisses and whispers. They're blissfully happy, and Willas wants to be happy for them, but he can't help feeling that Garlan's a lot less interesting in the presence of Leonette, who turns him into a lovestruck, mooning idiot.

Loras and Renly are worse; they argue over which radio station to listen to, ending up jostling and grappling with each other in the middle-section of the yellow minivan until Renly pushes Loras back against the door and kisses him fiercely. Willas sighs irritably and wonders what that sort of passion feels like. It's not, he thinks, something he's ever felt before, about anyone.

"God, can you two please just not?" for once, Margaery says more-or-less exactly what Willas is thinking. "You're going to make me crash, or something."

"You don't have a problem with Garlan and Leonette -" Loras starts indignantly, pushing Renly away in a fit of pique. Oh, God, thinks Willas. Don't start.

Margaery sighs gustily. "Yes, because they're at least quiet," she retorts, as though that settles it. Sansa giggles.

"Don't complain, Marge," Renly says, laughing, "I'm distracting him, so you won't have to put up with his supposedly clever one-liners and general annoyingness. Think yourself luck- ow!" he breaks off, "What was that for? I was kidding!"

Willas closes his eyes and rests his head against the back of his seat, resisting the urge to make some barbed comment. He knows he's been unusually impatient, lately, and he knows, too, that perhaps he isn't being altogether far to his siblings. But the fact remains that they are all, in one way or another, getting on with what they want to be doing; finding their spot in life and settling happily into it. And he, meanwhile, is twenty-four years old and still living at home with his family, trawling through a novel it feels as though he will never finish writing, his spirits dampened by a steady stream of rejection letters for his various forays into short story writing. He feels purposeless and dissolute, and so far, rather than alleviating that persistent feeling, this journey is only making it worse.

**-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-**

Two hours into their trip, they stop at a service station and pile out of the minivan in search of drinks and food and magazines. Willas falls into step beside Sansa as they cross the car-park. It's a bright day, but muggy and airless. Sansa's pale blue blouse clings to her skin, bunching up a little at the bottom to reveal a thin band of creamy skin between chiffon and soft denim. She is no longer wearing the silver locket that used to settle in the hollow of her throat, he notices, and finds himself speculating that maybe Joff Baratheon gave it to her.

"Does Marge even know where she's going, d'you think?" he asks her, filled with a puissant need to make conversation - any conversation.

Sansa shakes her head. "She hasn't got any plans," she tells him, "I think we're going to get lost." She pauses, and then goes on in a rush, "You've been quiet. Is everything ok?"

He nods helplessly, because he can't explain these senseless, nameless feelings he's been having, but Sansa still looks dubious.

"Is it your book?" she tries, "Did you get turned down again?" She ducks her head; tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Margaery told me you hadn't been having much luck," she mumbles, apologetic.

Now Willas feels inexplicably guilty. "It's not that," he finds himself telling her, "Well, it sort of is, partly, I suppose. But that's not all of it."

They reach the blocky, red brick bulk of the service station and Garlan holds open the door for them. Sansa gives him a grateful smile and Willas offers a brief "Thanks".

The brief interruption heralds the return of that fumbling, guarded awkwardness. Willas, unsure of precisely how to tell Sansa that he doesn't feel like talking about any of this, drifts over to the newspaper and magazine rack and picks up a film magazine, turning it over absently in his hands. He's not even really interested in what's on at the cinema.

"You shouldn't worry."

Sansa's voice, at once hesitant and insistent, startles him and he looks up sharply, turning to face her.

"What?"

"About your book. You shouldn't worry. Someone will like it."

"Sansa, no offence, but how would you know? You haven't read it."

She tilts her chin upwards slightly. "I'd like to," is all she says, and he finds himself surprised. This is the most level - the most direct - she has been with him.

He considers this. "I don't think it'd be your kind of thing," he says finally, a little self-consciously perhaps, "It's historical fantasy. It's set in the French revolution."

"It sounds like the sort of thing Jon would like," Sansa opines. "I don't know if it'd be my sort of thing, and I won't know unless you let me read it. I've never read anything like that before."

Somewhere off to their left, the till chimes lightly. Margaery is buying copious amounts of iced coffee.

"I suppose you can have a look at it if you want," he tells her, a little stiffly, after a few seconds. He wonders whether this is a decision he'll come to regret.

**-OoOoOoOoOoOoO-**

Their first real stop is New Forest in Hampshire. They've only been back in the van for twenty minutes more since the service station when Margaery decides that this is it, and reverses haphazardly into a gravel car-park. The surrounding areas are green; all fields and woods, and the air is a little fresher, brisker, here.

"We'll have a walk around, explore a bit, and then find somewhere to stay the night." Margaery decides. They had passed a smattering of promising looking Bed and Breakfasts in the last few miles or so; thus far, their lack of planning hasn't hindered them any.

"Have you read Willas' book?" Sansa asks Margaery as they walk along a narrow dirt-path, bracketed by impressive oaks, a little later that afternoon. Willas is some way behind, walking with Garlan and Leonette; Garlan is telling the pair of them some story or other. Loras and Renly are up ahead; snatches of their laughter carry on the wind.

Margaery shakes her head. "It's not really my sort of thing," she replies; a vague, casual echo of what Willas had said earlier. "Why?"

Sansa runs her hands through her hair so that it falls about her face, curtaining it from Margaery's view. "I was just wondering."

"You've been awfully nice to Willas, today," Sansa imagines Margaery saying, brown eyes lit with a knowing twinkle. Her stomach dips. What is she supposed to say to something like that?

But her friend only says airily, "Who wants to read about musty old Frenchmen, anyway?"


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa cannot decide whether she thinks the old farmhouse is very beautiful or very eerie. It stands in the middle of a wide expanse of field, a thin gravel path leading from wooden gate to wooden door. The sign on the gate; pale blue with amateurish curlicues of white lettering, announces the place as _The Eagle's Flight: Quality Hospitality. Do enjoy your stay._ Margaery wrinkles her nose at the obviously homemade sign ("What kind of B&B is this? It probably has rats,") and Garlan tells her to lighten up and think of it as part of the adventure.

The last one through the gate, Sansa closes it behind her and follows the others up the little path. Willas walks slowly; haltingly, and Sansa realises that his leg - which he injured playing sports when he was younger - must be giving him trouble.

"You alright?" she comes up beside him, the unabashed concern in her voice belying how easy she has grown around him already in the past few days. Still, he seems a little discomposed by her question, looking at her in narrow-eyed surprise.

His immediate answer is a short, reflexive "Fine," but after a moment, catching the look on her face - apologetic; resigned - he amends in a softer tone, "Don't worry about it."

Sansa gives him an unusually shrewd look; eyebrows raised slightly, lips pursed. "You're admitting there's something to worry about, then?"

This gives him pause. He huffs out a long, quiet sigh. "My leg's a bit stiff. That's all. Nothing to make a fuss about." This last is said not sharply but heavily; wearily, and Sansa, rather than feeling snubbed, feels sorry for him. Then she feels bad for feeling sorry for him - he'd hate that. She's contemplating what to say next when, thankfully, they reach the dark blue front door of The Eagle's Flight and Garlan, who is in front, reaches up to knock.

It is just beginning to be chilly and Sansa stuffs her hands into the pockets of her thin jacket while she waits. The waiting, though, does not go on for too long; within a few moments of Garlan's knock, the door swings open inwards to reveal a girl in jeans and a dark grey t-shirt, her bobbed hair gleaming darkly.

"Hi," she says in a brisk, bright tone that might or might not be affected, "I'm Mya. Are you here about a room? Or, um," she corrects herself, dark grey eyes travelling over the little group, "a few rooms?"

"Four, please," Margaery tells her, and Mya's face clouds. "One second," she says, before turning and disappearing into a wide hallway. "Lysa!" they hear her yelling, "We haven't got four rooms free, have we?"

"You know we haven't," a woman's irritable voice comes back, muffled, through the wall, "We've three rooms - some of them will have to share, or look somewhere else."

Margaery and Sansa exchange glances. "What a cow," says Renly under his breath.

A moment later, Mya re-emerges, looking put-upon. "I suppose you heard that," she says, dryly. "I don't know what you want to do - I wouldn't blame you for trying somewhere else."

"What sort of rooms are they?" Garlan asks after a moment, thoughtfully.

"Two single beds in each," Mya says promptly. Then, arching an eyebrow, "Not that we're stopping you from pushing them together."

Garlan seems satisfied with this. "Marge," he says, turning to his sister, "What do you and Sansa say to top-and-tailing? Then Willas can have the other bed in your room."

Margaery wrinkles her nose irritably. "Why us?"

"The rest of us are coupled up," Leonette reminds her, catching on, "It might be a bit awkward, don't you think?"

Predictably, Sansa feels her face flush, and she lets out a short, high-pitched giggle despite herself.

"All right, then," Mya, who has been watching this exchange with mild amusement, cuts in, "Why don't you all come inside? I'll show you the rooms and you can sort things out in the warmth instead of us all standing there in the doorway like idiots."

That gets a few half-hearted laughs, and then they troop inside - all seven of them - after Mya.

"I'm sure Lysa'll be with you in a bit," she says over her shoulder, leading them all upstairs, "Her son's sick, so she's seeing to him. That might be lucky for you, though, actually," she adds in an undertone, "She is a bit of a ratbag."

The farmhouse, it transpires, isn't the most welcoming of places. Its furnishings are dark, heavy pieces, but there is a sturdiness about them that speaks of warmth and security. Unpainted beams cross-hatch the low ceilings. The walls, grey stone also left unpainted for effect, do have a certain olde-worlde charm. Sort of. Maybe. If you squint.

**-OoOoOoOoOoOoO-**

Their evening is spent in the room that is to be Garlan and Leonette's. It's a smallish, square room whose wide, high window overlooks a wooded area. There are, as Mya told them, two beds, as well as a small chest of drawers between them, and a little wicker chair beneath the window. Willas sits in this chair, which seems somewhat too small for his long, rather gangly limbs, whilst they all talk and drink cider, their chatter seeming to bounce off the thick, close walls. At one point, Lysa - who turns out to be a plump woman with dark reddish hair drawn back from her face so tightly that her pale eyes bulge a little - comes knocking at the door, demanding that they lower their voices because her son needs his sleep.

"It's only half past six!" says Loras incredulously, and rolls his eyes when Lysa gives him a sharp, quelling look.

But they do all try to be a little quieter after that.

Willas, for his part, mostly listens. Despite the dull, throbbing ache in his leg, he feels better in himself than he's done since this madcap sojourn began. Tonight, the animated nattering of the others is amusing rather than grating. Garlan tells more of his ridiculous anecdotes ("You're making that up!" Leonette insists at one point, between barely suppressed gales of laughter). Willas finds himself pulled into a spirited and awkwardly hilarious discussion about whether Mya fancies him (Margaery is convinced of it; Loras is convinced Marge is seeing things that aren't there).

"Back me up, Sansa," Margaery demands good-naturedly, jogging Sansa's elbow, "She was checking him out, wasn't she?"

Sansa, who, Willas notices suddenly, doesn't seem to be half as entertained by this topic of discussion as everyone else, fiddles with a strand of her hair and gazes determinedly down at the bottle of cider in her hand. "Oh, I don't know," she mumbles noncommittally, "Maybe…"

"You're no help!" Margaery sighs exaggeratedly. "Honestly. Willas, you should just ask her for her number. She obviously likes you. Mya, I mean. Not Sansa. Obviously."

Willas finds he has to stop himself from asking her why it's so _obvious_ that Sansa wouldn't like him.


	4. Chapter 4

Usually, he doesn't find it too difficult to get to sleep in new and unfamiliar places, but tonight, Willas just cannot seem to drift off. He lies there open-eyed in the dark and wills the minutes to hurry along. In the next room, he can still hear the low murmur of voices; the occasional barely muted peal of laughter. _Do they ever bloody sleep? At least they're only _talking,_ now. Mind you, Garlan and Leonette make them seem _quiet. _Wouldn't think it, would you? _The thing about trips like this one is that everyone's in each other's pockets all the time; their personal life is right under your nose and even if you look away, you can't ignore it. Willas now knows far more than he'd like to about both his brothers' relationships. He knows, from having heard Leonette telling Sansa and Margaery about it while they were waiting in line to buy the cider last night, that Leonette thinks Garlan is The One (what kind of ridiculous, dated sentiment is that, anyway?) and that she wants to have his children. He also begins to realise – with some surprise – from the way his expression darkens, a muscle in his jaw clenching, every time Renly jokingly flirts with Margaery, that Loras is actually the _insecure _one in their relationship. Willas foresees problems, there, and is a little disgusted with himself for finding that the idea makes him oddly satisfied. _Things can't be perfect all the time._

He is thinking about all this; thinking about how he knows he should be happy that his siblings are happy, but somehow cannot summon the feeling, when over in the other bed, Sansa mumbles something in her sleep and turns onto her side. Now she is facing him; lying so that, were her eyes open, she would be looking right at him. Strands of hair have fallen into her face, partially obscuring it. He finds himself staring at the lines and contours of her still body; the way the thin sheet clings to the slight swell of her hip, and the dip of her waist. Awake, she looks older than she actually is – she's tall and willowy, and her high cheekbones and narrow features are not youthful. She's actually younger than Margaery, Willas knows, but she looks older. Asleep, though, she looks somehow different – there is a new kind of vulnerability; of openness to her that makes her appear younger.

He's still watching her, and beginning to feel weird about watching her, when her eyes snap open and she bolts into a sitting position with a soft, hastily muted cry. For a moment, she sits very still, trying to regulate her breathing. Her hands clutch at the sheet, and she stares fixedly at the opposite wall. Willas narrows his eyes so that they are almost shut, and wonders what she can have been dreaming of.

Then, very slowly and carefully, so as not to wake the still peacefully sleeping Margaery, Sansa eases herself out of bed. Her pyjama top has ridden up, revealing a pale stretch of flat stomach, and she tugs it down. He watches her pull on her jacket, slip her feet into her shoes and slip out of the room.

He waits only a moment before pulling back his sheets and getting up to follow her. He moves too quickly; the sudden weight on his bad leg makes him wince and almost cry out. Still inwardly cursing, he follows Sansa's lead and puts on coat and trainers, moving towards the door with an uneven, limping gait, putting most of his weight on the leg which is not stiff and aching.

In the short, wide, squarish hallway, he shuts the door quietly behind him and makes for the stairs, figuring that the only place Sansa would have gone is down. Sure enough, he reaches the top of the stairs just in time to see her disappear out of the front door. A bemused sort of frown knits his brow. _What's she doing going out there in the middle of the night in just her pyjamas?_

Against his better judgement, he begins to descend the stairs.

Why's he doing this? It's not his business if his sister's best friend wants to go off on her own in the middle of the night. And it's not as if she'll be unsafe – they're in a farmhouse near a little tourist-y village. And maybe she wants to be alone; maybe she needs time to calm down, after her nightmare...

All of these things, he knows. And still he proceeds to the bottom of the stairs, crosses the downstairs hallway and lets himself out of the door, which Sansa has left unlocked.

She sits near the middle of the field, surrounded on all sides by a grassy sea. Her back is to him, long hair tumbling down around her shoulders in soft waves. She's hunched over slightly, knees pulled up to her chest; arms tightly encircling them; head lowered. Willas thinks he has never seen anyone look so very alone; so very_ lost_, as Sansa does now. It's the strangest thing... part of him is sure he's overanalysing; making something out of nothing; living in one of his stories. And then there's this other part of him that is absolutely certain something's troubling Sansa more than she lets on to anyone.

He just wants to make sure she's all right, he reasons, and begins to walk towards her.

She hears him approaching; he's not exactly quiet, much as he's trying to be, and turns to look at him; the moonlight might not be bright enough to show the tear-tracks on her face, but it makes her eyes glisten, and he knows she has been crying. She says nothing; only waits and watches.

"I can go away if you want – if you want to be alone, or something." He leads in with an awkward apology, as unlike any of his siblings as he could wish to be. "I just wanted to see if you were ok." He stops a couple of metres short of her, swinging his arms slightly to and fro.

For a moment, Sansa remains silent. Then:

"It was just a stupid dream," she waves a hand vaguely, "I'm alright."

Willas is dubious. Dubious and unsure how to proceed. _You don't _look_ alright, _he wants to say, because she's shivering a little, and not from the cold, either, he suspects. What he says instead is, "What are you doing out here?" which is hardly that much better, really.

She takes a moment before answering. She's looking up at him, and the effect is that he feels somehow further away from her than he maybe ought to be. He wants to sit beside her, but the thought of how much his bad leg would protest at that is quite a strong deterrent.

"I just wanted to get out of that room," she tells him, "I felt all...boxed in, which is really silly, I know. But I just... I don't know," she finishes helplessly, "I didn't think I'd be getting back to sleep any time soon, so I thought I might as well get up for a while. Or something."

That's not all of it, he knows, but he doesn't press the matter.

"Sansa," he says, "Are you enjoying this trip? Honestly?"

He's not sure why, exactly, he asks. He gets the feeling that she's just as reluctant to be here; that she feels just as irrationally isolated, as he does. And in the weirdest way, that both comforts him and makes him feel something a lot like sadness, only not quite the same. A look flits across Sansa's face; she seems about to say something, but then she bites her lip and ducks her head again, seeming to change her mind.

"Of course I am," she says, fiddling with the ends of her hair, "It's an adventure."

This is so obviously parroted from Margaery that Willas lets out a derisive laugh before he can help himself. Sansa looks up at him sharply, and he clears his throat; back to being vaguely self-conscious. He's infuriated with his behaviour. Why can he never think of the right thing to say around her?

"Come on," he tries again, making his voice gentle, "Please, tell me what's going on. I know something is."

This has the complete opposite from the desired effect on Sansa. Her eyes go very wide and she presses her lips together. For a moment, she's very still. Then she scrambles to her feet and dashes past him, the long grass rustling. She lets herself back into the farmhouse without any regard for waking up everyone else; letting the door bang loudly shut behind her. Willas stares at the closed door, mind working furiously. He doesn't know her that well, it's true, but now he's more sure than ever that something is not right with Sansa Stark.


End file.
